RAW RECRUIT - The Rival
by lilidelafield
Summary: Illya's childhood sweetheart and fiancée Anya Kossova seemed happy to wait for Illya to be allowed to marry. But then, out of the blue he learns she is about to marry another . . .


Illya was aware that something was afoot, but for some reason, he was missing it.

Napoleon seemed unaware of anything abnormal around headquarters, and was inclined to put Illya's feelings down to the hot weather. Illya knew better. He was, however, capable of infinite patience when it suited his purpose, and was content, for the time being, to keep his mouth closed and his eyes and ears open. He was very skilled at not being noticed when he wanted to learn something. It was, after all, a pre-requisite of his job. The truth, when he found out a few days later, knocked the stuffing out of him like few things ever had before.

The first hint Napoleon had that something was wrong was when Illya disappeared at lunchtime, claiming that he was not hungry. When he did not return to their office after lunch, he knew. Illya would not just go off somewhere without saying anything. Either something had happened to him, or something was wrong. A little investigation made it clear that the Russian had not left the building. Logic led Napoleon to investigate the roof.

What he found filled him with terror.

Illya was sitting on the parapet, his legs dangling over the sheer drop. His position looked frighteningly precarious, as he seemed to have scooted himself forward so that the slightest jolt would send him hurtling to the ground, a very long way below.

Suddenly afraid to make his partner jump, Napoleon called softly from the doorway.

"Illya?"

"I wondered when you would get here."

Napoleon came forward and leaned forward over the drop and gulped.

"I hope you're not thinking of…?"

His partner froze him with a silent glare. Napoleon resisted an urge to gulp.

"Please tell me what has happened, Illya."

Illya shook his head, and bracing his hands on the wall beneath him, leaned forward slightly and looked at the ground. The next moment, he felt himself yanked roughly from behind. He landed painfully on his back. He rolled over and sat up, glaring at his partner.

"Napoleon, what did you do that for?"

"I was scared, Illya. You wouldn't have jumped…would you?"

"What do you take me for Napoleon?"

"You…Illya, you were sitting right on the very edge…how high is it? If you fell from up there you'd end up as just a smear on the sidewalk."

Illya sighed.

"No, of course I wasn't about to fall…"

Napoleon glanced at his partner sharply. There was an odd edge to his tone which sent shivers up and down his spine.

"Illya, are you in trouble of some kind?"

A smiled briefly quirked the corner of his mouth and he shook his head.

"No, I'm not in trouble."

"Something is wrong. For some reason, you're scaring me. What could have knocked you like this?"

Illya glanced at him, and turning away, said simply;

"Go and ask the new guy down in translations."

Solo frowned in thought.

"New guy in translations? That would be Henry Barber? Born in London, raised in Stockholm and worked in Amsterdam, Budapest and Cairo? What has he done?"

"Napoleon, just go and ask him if he is free to do a job for you this Saturday, and listen to his response."

Whereupon Illya stood up and turned his back on his friend and leaned on the parapet, looking out over the city. Mystified, Napoleon returned to the staircase.

Down in translations, he found the man in question, busily speaking into a microphone in Arabic.

Henry Barber was in his early thirties. He was short and stocky, with tousled fair hair and a friendly face. In fact. Barber was rather unattractive to look at, but he was such a pleasant and amiable man, always smiling and talkative that he was very popular with all the staff, ladies included. He greeted the CEA with a cheery "Afternoon sir! What can I do for you?"

Napoleon racked his brain.

"Henry, I was wondering if you were free this Saturday evening, you might be able to do me a small favour?"

Henry looked genuinely upset.

"Oh, Mister Solo, I'm so sorry. I am getting married this Saturday. We'll be catching our plane at six in the evening. We're going to Mexico for our honeymoon!"

Napoleon was struck instantly with conflicting emotions. He was genuinely happy for the man. Barber was clearly besotted with his bride-to-be, and looking forward to getting married and settling down. At the same time, the memory of Illya's set features, and the fearfully dangerous perch he had taken on the roof gave Napoleon an instant clue to the identity of Barber's fiancée. He forced a broad smile and wrung the man's hand.

"Hey, congratulations. Who's the lucky girl?"

"Anya Kossova, sir. I found her mesmerizing from the moment I first laid eyes on her. She was wonderful to talk to and I just couldn't stop thinking about her. The first time I asked her out, she said thanks but no; but I had to keep asking. Eventually she said yes, and we got on really well."

"Well I wish you both every happiness, Henry. Truly. Don't worry about the favour, it's nothing urgent. Have a great day on Saturday."

When Napoleon reached his office, he found to his relief, Illya was there reading through some reports and making notes. He looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"Anya and Henry are getting married? Henry told me. Who told you, Illya? I hope Anya told you herself?"

Illya nodded.

"Yes, but only when I confronted her. I had been hearing the odd rumour, enough to make me suspicious. When I asked her what was going on, she told me honestly, and apologized for not telling me sooner. She said that she had been agonizing for ages over how to tell me. She said that she was feeling guilty because I have been waiting patiently for her, and she was unwilling to wait for me."

"Does she love Henry, Illya? That is what it comes down to, in the end."

Illya shook his head.

"I have no doubt that Barber loves her, but Anya is desperate to find someone and get married before she gets too old to become a mother. She is certainly very fond of him, but I doubt she loves him as well as…"

His voice broke, and he returned to his reports.

"Drop the subject, Napoleon. I have work to do if you don't."

That's all Illya would say on the matter.

That evening, after Illya had left for the day, Napoleon was just signing off the last few reports in preparation for going home, when there came a knock on his door.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Anya's head peered round. She seemed relieved to see Napoleon was alone.

"Anya. Illya's gone…"

"Actually, I came to speak to you…if you don't mind."

"Okay. About…?"

"I wanted to explain…or rather to apologize for not inviting you and Illya to our wedding. "

"That's really not necess…" Napoleon began, but Anya ploughed on.

"…It's only that…well I want both of you to be there…and if you want to come you will both be welcome, but I just thought that for me to give Illya an invitation to my wedding, especially when I was too afraid to officially break off our engagement in person…I thought it would seem too much like an insult."

Napoleon nodded. At least Anya was not devoid of all human feeling.

"Have you told Henry about Illya?"

Biting her lip, Anya nodded.

"Henry was…upset with me. He understands why I don't want to wait so long for Illya, but he hates the thought of being at odds with him. He hates the thought of even unknowingly causing Illya pain, and he feels that our getting married and still working here in New York would be torture for him. He is insisting that if you think it best, we should both transfer to another office."

Napoleon repressed a sigh.

"Anya, Henry is innocent in all of this. You knew what you were doing. Illya knew that there was always the chance that you would meet someone else and get married, but he trusted that you would be honest enough to tell him yourself, right from the start. That is no more than he would have done for you. I understand your fiancé's concern, and he may be right, I don't know. What I do know is that you are trying to get me to make your decision for you. If you tell me you both wish to transfer, I will set things in motion for you, but I am not going to give you any ammunition to fire at Illya later. My strong suggestion to you, Anya, is that you go and make your peace with Illya yourself, and ask him what he wants. What he would prefer."

Anya nodded unhappily and turned away.

A little over an hour later, Anya found herself knocking on Illya's front door, surprised at her nervous she was. When he did not respond, she almost left, but on the spur of the moment, she knocked again more loudly.

"Illya, please let me talk to you."

She heard a clatter, and the door opened. Illya was half leaning on the door to stay upright. He was clearly half-drunk. His hair was standing on end, and his face was damp. She felt her heart break. Is this really what she had done to him?

"Illya please let me come in. I think…I want…I need…"

"Yes, Anya, that is all you care about, isn't it? _Your_ wants and _your_ needs."

He stood aside for her and she entered his apartment, looking round and spotted the whisky bottle sitting on the coffee table.

"Whisky, Illya? I thought vodka was your drink?"

"Can't get drunk on vodka."

"You _want_ to get drunk?"

He turned his eyes to her. She read the sadness and the heartbreak in their depths.

"Oh Illya, I really did not stop to think about how…"

Her words were stifled by an unexpected sob. She hated seeing her beloved Illya like this. Normally, he would have been at her side in an instant, offering her a hanky and a shoulder to cry on. Now, however, he simply picked up his whisky bottle and took another slug from it. She snatched the bottle from his hand and threw it across the room where it hit the wall and smashed, glugging its contents mournfully all over the tiled floor.

"Illya, don't destroy yourself because of me. Hit me, yell at me, whatever it is, do it to me! I deserve it for hurting you like this, but don't…" She stopped, and changed her tone to one of genuine regret.

"Illya, I still love you as much as I ever did…but seventeen years is such a long time. I _can't_ wait that long."

"Then you don't love me as much as you love yourself. If you did, you would be willing to wait. I was willing to wait for you. I did not _choose_ to join the U.N.C.L.E, whatever you think, Anya. I have not had the opportunity of making any choices about my life. Always someone else has taken those choices out of my hands and forced me to cooperate. But with UNCLE, I have found a place, a niche where I have a measure of control over my life. I can live where I choose, and I have friends who care about me as a person; and the promise that once I reach the age of forty, I can retire from the field and I can remain here in the US if I wish, I can marry or not as I choose, and no one will ever have the right to force me to do anything I don't want to do. All I have to do is survive until my fortieth birthday. Who knows what regulations may change between now and then? Patience, Anya, is a quality I have been forced to acquire, through all my life. Patience, I have learned, is often very difficult, but the rewards are worth the wait."

Anya was stunned. There was so much about Illya's life that she had missed. Things she hadn't, could not possibly have known. Her memories of first learning how the Kuryakin Clan had been destroyed by the Nazis, everyone save one or two being gunned down or hunted by dogs and forced to dig their own graves and then shot and buried. It had only been the rumour that one or two might have been able to run away and hide themselves in the forest without being tracked by the dogs that had allowed her to keep alive the hope that her dearest friend Illyushenka might have survived. If anyone could have, it would be him…

She had spent her entire life with her family, living her life in the traditional way. They had had a hard time during the Great Patriotic War, keeping themselves out of the way of Nazi soldiers and patrols. She could have written a dozen books about that alone. But Illya? What life had he had? A seven-year old, picked up and thrown into one of those state-run homes for kids where they were regularly beaten and starved. The tales that emerged from those places made her so thankful that Illya's fate had not been her own. How many orphans customarily perished every week in those places from neglect? Malnutrition and disease being the biggest killers.

She looked up and found him watching her, breathing heavily. Here he was, alive and well. Had it been the hope that one day, if he was patient enough, he would survive and someday return to reclaim her? And here she had come, he must have thought things were going good at last. A few years as friends, as they had always been until the long-awaited day that they could be man and wife. She might as well have taken a dagger and pierced his heart with it.

"Why did you come here, Anya?"

"I came to…to try and make peace…if that is possible."

"You mean, you are hoping that I will smile and say `congratulations, Anya, good for you, have a good day and a wonderful life!', and smile at you both every day as though everything is all right?"

"Something like that. "

"Henry Barber is a good man, Anya. He is one of the best. He is a kind man and he will treat you well. I could not have chosen better for you. You must swear to me that you will make sure that you are worthy of him? Swear to me that you will never break _his_ heart as you have broken mine. I do not think that you love him as well as you think you do…but I know he loves you very deeply. He worships the ground you walk on, is that the phrase people use here? You have the right to marry whom you choose, but you do not have the right trample on the emotions of others. If you have chosen him, then I wish you well, but you must swear to me that you will always be good to him."

Almost blinded by her tears, Anya nodded. She got up and fumbled for her purse. Illya had to steer her to the door. At the door, she paused and gave him a hug.

"I swear to you, my darling. I…I…"

Illya have her a wan smile, and closed the door on her. Shoulders slumped, Anya entered the lift, still uncertain whether she had actually achieved her intentions, or rubbed salt in the wounds.

Henry was waiting for her in the car.

"Alright, honey?"

"Oh, Henry!"

Anya dissolved into tears. He held her comfortingly and waited until she started to calm down, then he raised her chin and looked her in the eyes.

"Anya, are you having second thoughts?"

"Henry? What do you mean?"

"You've been up to see Mister Kuryakin…Illya I mean. I know you still love him, honey. I'm not a fool. I understand why you want to get married sooner rather than later, but I don't want to be…I don't want to be someone you settle for…and if the main reason you want to marry me is to have kids, then it still won't work. That is no basis for marriage. Who knows we could marry, and then find out we are not compatible, and can't have children together. You need to know that you love me enough for that to not become a problem. I just know that I love you more than I have ever loved anyone, and all I want is for you to be happy. Are you having second thoughts? If you are, then I release you and I won't think worst of you. I would rather find out now than later."

MFU

The next morning, Illya was nursing a major hangover. He sat at his desk, wincing at every click of his typewriter. Napoleon had no trouble guessing at the reason for his partner's drinking binge the night before, and felt only sympathy. For some reason, Illya had never seemed to have things easy. Life seemed intent on giving him a hard time.

Someone knocked loudly at their office door, causing Illya to curse fretfully under his breath.

"Come in quietly." Napoleon called. The door opened, and Henry Barber stood there, chewing his knuckle. He glanced from the CEA to his partner and back again. Napoleon took the hint.

"Uh…I'm going to go down and get us come coffee. I'll be back in ten."

He vanished swiftly, closing the door behind him. Illya sat back and regarded his visitor. This was unexpected, although perhaps on reflection it shouldn't have been. He genuinely liked Henry Barber.

"Uh…Mister Kuryakin…I wanted to…oh god, this is awkward. I just came to say, sir, how sorry I am for causing all of this…if I had had any idea…"

"You're talking about Miss Kossova?"

Henry nodded.

"She is dazzling, sir. I was smitten from the moment I first saw her. I knew she was Russian of course, but so are a lot of people. It never entered my head that you and she were…if I had had any idea I would never have asked her out, and I…she told me nothing about you until we were discussing guest lists for the wedding reception. I wrote your names down, and she started to get…antsy, you know?"

Illya held up his hand, and Henry paused for breath. He had been looking at his hands, afraid of the ice-prince glare that Mister Kuryakin was so famous for. When he looked up however, he was surprised to find that those blue eyes, although intense, were not icy at all.

"Henry, Henry…first of all, you had better call me Illya. Second, I happen to know that you are entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. You have nothing to apologize to me for. Neither is Anya guilty of anything."

" Mister Kuryakin…Illya, Anya said that you were engaged to be married, and that she did not tell you about me, or officially break it off or anything, and I…"

"Henry, Anya's father and my Uncle Viktor arranged our marriage for us when we were very young. I believe I was just six years old at the time. I remember the ceremony still, and wondering at the time what it was all about."

"An arranged marriage? Is that the Russian way?"

Illya shook his head, then regretted it and winced.

"No." he looked Henry in the eye. "It is, however, the Romany way."

The surprise on Henry's face was comical.

"Romany? You're a gypsy? Both of you are…?"

Illya raised his eyebrow, and Henry grabbed the stool and sat down.

"Wow, I would never have guessed. Russian Gypsies…"

"Actually, Ukrainian. I am, in fact, Half-Romany. I only spent just over one year of my life with the clan; from the death of my father until the Nazis…what I am saying is that I have no legal or moral hold over Anya. She is free to do exactly as she wants and marry whom she chooses. My clan is dead and gone, and Anya's is a very long way from here. It is unlikely that she will ever return home anyway."

Henry was silent for a long moment, and read the sadness in his superior's eye.

"Sir…Illya, despite what you say, you are deeply in love with her, and were hoping to marry her yourself one day weren't you? She explained to me that you were content to wait until your retirement from section two, but that she needs… um…doesn't want to wait that long. Sir, I hate the thought of even inadvertently causing you pain. I don't want you to be reminded of anything painful every time you see me…us."

Illya felt that the emotional dagger that Anya had plunged into his heart was being twisted by Henry's attempted apology. He held no ill will against the man, but his head hurt, he felt nauseous and just wanted him to get the hell out of his office and let him quietly die in peace.

"Henry, listen to me. My heart is my own affair. You are both free to make your own choices. It would have been easier for me if Anya had told me from the start that she had decided not to wait for me, but that is her choice and I cannot blame her. She is accustomed to being surrounded by her clan. She needs to feel the sense of security that being part of a family would bring her. I have no ill will against you. If you are thinking of moving to another office for my sake, that is your choice, but remember that as section two agents, Napoleon and I are frequently away from here anyway. Have a good day on Saturday."

Henry tried to smile, but was hindered by his sympathy for Illya. The man looked very white still.

"Are you alright? You don't look awfully well…"

"I have a mega-hangover Mister Barber, and I am dying. I would prefer to die alone, so if you don't mind…"

Henry, in the act of opening the office door, paused and picked up the empty waste paper can. He stepped back and handed it over.

"Here sir. You look like you might be needing this…"

Illya took it automatically and merely nodded. Henry headed out of the office quickly. The poor guy looked like he was about to throw up, and if Henry stayed to witness it, he would find himself doing the same in sympathy. Illya Kuryakin was a difficult man to read. He was being scrupulously fair, but he was feeling the pain all the same. Somehow though, Henry believed him when Illya had said that he did not blame him, or either of them. He was, it seemed, yet again a victim of circumstance.

As Henry returned to his desk, right next to that of Anya, he saw his own future laid out, bright and rosy with his lovely lady by his side. Illya, though, what did he have to look forward to? What was his future?

Saturday evening, a young couple sat in the departure lounge at the airport, waiting for their flight to be announced. The young woman, complete in her light blue going away outfit was dabbing her eyes. Her new husband had his arm around her.

"I told Napoleon I wanted them to come, and he understood. I really thought they would come, if only for a minute."

"If you didn't tell Illya directly, he would never have come, honey. He still loves you as much as he ever did. He would not find it easy to come along and watch you give yourself to another man. Come on now, try and cheer up. He gave us his good wishes."

Anya wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, then got up.

"I really love you, Henry. You know that don't you?"

"And what about…Thingummy?"

"Thingummy? Oh, you mean Whatzisname?"

She smiled.

"Yes, I do still love Whatzisname and I always will, but we all live the life we choose."

"He doesn't. You told me yourself, he has no choice about his life."

She nodded.

"I know, but he is too used to obeying orders and following rules. He lacks the imagination to ask directly for what he wants. He is living in his own fantasy world where provided he suffers enough, one day he will be able to live happily ever after. Maybe he will, but I don't want to put the chance of happiness on hold in the hope that he won't be killed in action somewhere on the other side of the world."

"You think that Mister Waverly would allow him to get married if he asked?"

Anya smiled.

"I know he would."

" _You_ asked him?"

"No. I had lunch with Mrs. Waverly a few weeks ago, and I asked her for her advice. She is a remarkably wise woman. She told me that the only reason she and her husband got married was because he was determined to defy convention and break the rules. Their marriage was allowed because they were both so determined that it would work...and of course, it did."

Henry stared at his wife.

"So how come you never told Illya?"

"Because it has to come from him, Henry. You pursued me with a determination and a devotion no one has ever shown to me before. What is that phrase…? Pro-active? You took the initiative and insisted on what you wanted. Illya is passive, content to let things happen to him without taking a stand. You won me fair and square Henry. You have made it impossible for me to not love you. I can't help loving you. You are a wonderful man and thank you for the compliment you have paid me by marrying me."

"Come here and kiss me, Mrs. Barber."

Henry kissed her long and full on the lips.

As they alighted from the plane, some hours later, feeling the heat, and also the glorious feeling of elation at being on holiday, they glanced up and Henry suddenly grabbed his wife's arm.

"Anya, is that…who I think it is?"

Standing at the arrivals gate, were Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, both grinning widely. Nonplussed, the honeymooners approached them. Anya looked uncertainly from one to the other.

"I remember giving you both a verbal invitation to the wedding…and you didn't come. But I have to say that the invitation was not intended to include our honeymoon!"

Illya grinned and hugged her, then hugged her husband, who turned red in the face.

"Don't worry you two, we didn't come to interrupt anything. We were sent down here on a courier drop. We thought we would treat you to a slap-up meal for your first night here before saying goodbye. We're being shipped off to Morocco in the morning."

Henry and Anya looked at one another, and grinned. Anya leaned forward and kissed Illya on the tip of his nose.

"Thank you, my friend." She whispered in his ear. "Thank you for everything."


End file.
